


All I Have

by ChaoticReverie



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Original Character(s), POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-04-26 05:55:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4992841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticReverie/pseuds/ChaoticReverie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lasallin must do whatever it takes to protect the last of her kin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First knock at a Hobbit fic. Hopefully this goes well…
> 
> Ahem, now… this will be a bit dark (as can be expected about 70% of the time in regards to my writing), so be forewarned. There will be violence, character death, non-con, emotional angst, language… things along those lines.
> 
> Pronunciation: Lasallin (Laz-ah-lyn), Ioreth (Yor-eth)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the Hobbit, though any OC's that appear throughout the story are mine.

Small, agile feet moved silently over the forest floor, eyes peering through the trees and toward the river, where a figure sat perched upon a wide stone slab.

Alone. Good.

Practiced motions carried slender legs down the slope, slowly closing the distance between hunter and prey.

...

Lasallin peered along the edge of her sword, setting the leather strap aside as she stood. Sunlight glanced off the metal as she turned it, examining her work. Holding the blade aloft, the young woman felt the weight of it, testing the balance. She smiled, pleased, and slid her fingers around the hilt.

"A fine job," she decided, twirling the weapon with effortless precision. It whispered as it danced in her palm, the faint whistle of steel ringing in the crisp afternoon air. She spun, thrusting outward and pressing the tip of her blade against the throat of her wide-eyed, would-be attacker, forcing them flat against the bank's incline. Lasallin leaned closer to her prostrate assailant, grinning as she whispered, "And now you're dead."

Huffing as the weapon was withdrawn, Ioreth touched a hand to her neck, grumbling when she felt a bead of wetness against her skin. Wiping her fingers on her sleeve, the dark-haired girl whined, "Do you have to get so close?"

Lifting a brow at her cousin, the young woman brushed a hank of pale hair from her face as she responded, "I wouldn't be getting my point across otherwise."

Ioreth sent her a flat look.

Sliding down the last couple feet of the bank and onto the rock, the young girl knelt to dip her hand into the river, washing away the last remnants of blood from her fingertips. She watched for a quiet moment as her mentor sheathed her newly sharpened sword, and gathered her things, reverently placing them back into the designated pockets of her pouch.

Lasallin fastened the strap and pulled the small satchel over her shoulder, glancing expectantly in her direction.

"How did you know?" Ioreth demanded.

"I could hear you breathing," she replied, moving to stand next to her. "If an enemy can hear your breath, it doesn't matter how quietly you step, how quickly you strike, they will kill you. It's important that you learn to control that if you ever want to be a successful swordswoman."

"I'll be a great swordswoman," the girl insisted, a little sore at being lectured.

"Yes, you will," Lasallin agreed. "But not yet; you've still got a lot to learn."

The young brunette turned toward her, pleading, "Take me with you on your next patrol!"

Her mouth turned up in a half-smile. "You know I can't do that. You're still young, Iory. Your mother and father would never allow it."

"I could sneak away," the girl insisted in a hushed voice, pulling her feet beneath her as she splayed her hands flat on the sun-soaked rock. "They don't have to know. Please, Las!"

Sending her cousin a disapproving look, she chastised, "You shouldn't say such things. What would they think if you just disappeared, hm? Would you really want to cause them such distress?"

Deflating as she was denied yet again, Ioreth conceded, chin tucked down as she wrung her hands in her shirt.

Rolling at her eyes at the sudden bout of melancholy, Lasallin told her, "Enough of that, Iory. You train hard, grown strong, and I'll take you on patrol when you're older."

The girl looked ready to leap on her, brown eyes wide with anticipation. "But," she went on, her tone serious again, "you need to learn to control your breathing."

Instantly deflated by the words, Ioreth slouched forward, hair falling in front of her face.

"You can practice right now," the young woman suggested, turning and circling around behind her cousin. With the toe of her boot she nudged the girl's back. "Straighten up."

The brunette corrected her posture, awaiting further instruction.

"Now, close your eyes and focus. Take a deep, slow breath in – feel your lungs expand – and then breathe slowly out again. You are a tree."

"A tree?" Ioreth repeated, trying hard not to laugh.

"A tree," Lasallin confirmed. "And your breath is a gentle breeze that slips through the branches, soundless, steady. When you draw breath, I want you to imagine the sweeping silence of the wind. That is what you need to achieve."

The woman observed her pupil, thinking with a smile that she was learning quickly, much as she had when she was young.

As a child Lasallin had never been like the other girls. She had never been fond of dolls, and she couldn't sing or play an instrument. No, she didn't particularly like most of the things she was expected to like, but why would she? They just seemed so… boring!

Instead she'd taken to following after her father, Herubrand, fostering an avid fascination for the art of swordplay. He'd been head of the town guard since he was a young man, a swordsman of great skill and prestige, protecting their community for many years. Her father had saved lives, brought criminals to justice! Who wanted to be the damsel in distress when they could be the hero?

For years she had begged her parents for a sword. Her mother had been horrified, of course, but her father had felt differently. He'd sired no sons to pass on his legacy to, but with an eager young mind pleading for his tutelage, he'd viewed it as a great opportunity.

She received her first blade on the ninth summer of her birth, a small weapon to match her size. It had been heavy, she recalled, but that hadn't stopped her from picking it up every day and practicing with it. She would shadow the guard, mimic them as they trained. And when he had time, her father would teach her his craft one on one. He never went easy on her, telling her that she needed to be disciplined if she wanted to wield a blade. Many nights she went to bed with sore arms and blistered hands, until she grew accustomed to the weight, and calluses hardened her palms. By the time she was twelve she outmatched almost every boy in town, aside from a few of the older, more experienced lads.

Lasallin frowned as her thoughts drifted to the very last night she'd seen her father. Word of bandits attacking merchants on the East Road had reached them, and her father and his men had ridden out to investigate the rumor. It had been late, and the night had been peaceful. No ominous storm or chilling wind to foreshadow what would come. He'd entered her room dressed to travel, knelt at her bedside and kissed her on the head.

"I'll see you in a couple of days," he'd told her. She remembered smiling, not feeling even a sliver of fear as he departed. He always came back.

Only that time… he didn't. Many of the others had returned three days later, but her father had not been among them. She had been so confused when she could not find him, approaching Bergil – his second in command – with the inquiry of his whereabouts. The look he had given her… no words were needed. She had dismissed his claim, calling him a liar, but then she'd seen his horse, and the large, wrapped bundle slung across its back.

His death had been nearly impossible for her to accept at the time. Her father had always been infallible in her eyes, a paradigm of perfection in battle. How could he have fallen, to a bandit, no less? They told her it was poison from an arrow that brought him down, an arrow he'd taken in defense of one of their younger swordsmen. They told her that he had fought impressively despite his wound, refusing to rest until they had found and killed all of the brigands. It hadn't eased the pain, really, but it was good to know that he had died so valiantly. That was how he would have wanted to go.

His passing had not dampened her desire to train; in fact, it only made her work harder. She promised herself and her father that she would grow strong, and defend their people, as he had.

And now here she was, passing on that same knowledge to another eager mind. She tilted her head as she watched Ioreth try to even out her breathing, a look of stern concentration on her young face. "Better. With time you won't even have to think about it, it will come naturally."

The sound of footsteps had both girls turning, Lasallin's hand instantly sliding to the hilt of her sword. Relaxing when she saw Gram – another guard – approaching, she tilted her head in acknowledgement, but frowned when she saw the expression on his face.

"What's wrong?"

"Trouble up North," he explained. "We've received word from a small settlement on the other side of the Trollshaws that nearby villages have been raided. They fear they may be next."

"Bandits?" she wondered aloud.

"They don't know," Gram told her solemnly.

Lasallin's frown deepened. "What do you mean? Surely someone saw something?"

"No one was left alive. Commander Bergil is preparing to depart."

A grim feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. "I see. I'll be along shortly, then."

Ioreth watched Gram leave, gaze shifting to her cousin. "You have to go?"

She tilted her head in affirmation.

Nodding, the brunette stood, dusting herself off as she offered, "I'll walk back to town with you."

Following the river a ways, the pair walked in silence, the younger of the two stealing glances at her mentor as they went. Her lips were thinned, eyes dark and far away. "Are you afraid?"

Lasallin blinked, brow lifting at her cousin's query. "I'd be a fool not to be concerned; people are dying. Whoever is doing this is clearly dangerous."

Noticing the furrow of Ioreth's brow, the pale-haired swordswoman gave her a little nudge, instructing, "Don't waste your time worrying. Train hard while I'm gone."

She never promised to return, her father's final words to her always freezing the assurance on her tongue. She risked her life every time she left on patrol, every time the guard rode out in response to these rumours. It was what they did, and she would offer her young pupil no delusions. One day death would claim her, as it would them all, and when it happened she wanted Ioreth to be far better prepared for it than she had been.

When they arrived back in town word of their departure had already spread. Lasallin's mother awaited her return, having packed most of her things already. She thanked the woman, making for her room to dress for travel.

Removing her tunic and undershirt, she retrieved a roll of cloth from her nightstand. Holding one end firm against her chest, she wound the material tightly around herself, cutting the strip and tucking the end in once she had finished. She took a moment to assess the binding, ensuring it would stay in place.

Over the years, Lasallin had come to find that – while the men she knew respected her – most others tended to overlook her as soon as they discovered her sex. Considering her level of skill and just how hard she had worked to obtain it, this was not something she took kindly to. It had, in fact, caused quite a few unnecessary spats between herself and various males, criminals and bystanders alike.

Aside from that irksome detail, it was far safer to travel disguised as a man. The deviants they tended to encounter were the lowest of the low, and she had heard too many accounts of women being raped. While she had never been bested by any of said deviants, there was always the possibility of it happening, and the mere notion of such a thing…it was not something she liked to think on.

A light rap at her door shook her from her unpleasant musings, and she slipped her tunic back over her head as she permitted, "Come in."

Ioreth poked her head in the door, stepping inside and closing it again behind her. "I brought you a loaf of bread; mother just made it. I set it on the table for you."

"Thank you."

"Can I braid your hair?"

"Sure."

Lasallin settled on the bed, turning as her cousin plopped down next to her. The young girl gathered the weighty mass of her pale hair in her hands, separating it into portions and then quickly winding it together.

She strapped on her wrist bracers as she waited for Ioreth to finish, smiling to herself when she noticed the young girl was still being mindful of her breathing.

Binding the end with a thin leather strip once she was done, the young brunette shuffled over to the chair in the corner, where the rest of her cousin's attire was laid out. Bringing it to her, she asked curiously, "Las, why don't you wear more armour?"

"I find that full arm bracers and cuisses limit my range of movement," she explained as she tied on her grieves. "I'm a lot faster if I don't have a ton of leather weighing me down."

"What about a breastplate?"

"It shows the curve of my waist," she replied. Ioreth had already learned of her preferences for travel, having seen her breast binding once before.

"Don't you feel vulnerable without something protecting your chest?" the girl pressed. She knew she would.

Lasallin stood, strapping on her sword-belt, and knives before gathering up the last of her garments. "I would feel far more vulnerable if my opponent knew what I was hiding. All I have to do is stab them before they stab me. Usually that isn't a problem."

The younger girl slid from the mattress and followed her cousin out and into the main room, where both of their mothers were waiting.

Accepting her pack as it was handed to her, Lasallin embraced her mother in a tight hug, turning then to her aunt to do the same. "Thank you for the bread."

"You're most welcome. Travel safe, and come back to us," she responded, taking Ioreth by the hand as they moved outside to see the patrol off. While some of the guards would remain to protect the village, many of them were leaving with Bergil. Most of the townsfolk had gathered to bid them farewell.

The young woman playfully tousled her cousin's hair before approaching the horses, wrapping the scarf her mother had made her around her face, concealing everything but her eyes. She slid her cloak on and buckled it, pulling up the hood, and then fastened her pack to her horse's saddle.

Patting the mare's speckled withers when she huffed impatiently, Lasallin pulled herself astride and took up the reigns, nudging the horse into motion as the others began to depart. With one final wave to her family, she turned and steered her mount into line with the others.

She drew her lower lip between her teeth, concern still stirring in the pit of her stomach as she glanced up the road.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The patrol reaches the village...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even going to attempt to put any Black Speech in this - I can only imagine how badly I would butcher it – so when the orcs are speaking said language to one another, I will simply use italics and bold.
> 
> Example: **_"Look at me, I'm talking in Black Speech,"_** said one orc to another.
> 
> Onward!

"Ioreth seems to be doing well."

Lasallin blinked at the unexpected comment, turning to address the speaker. "She's a natural, if not a little impatient. She'll be patrol-ready in no time."

Gram smiled, guiding his horse alongside hers as he remarked, "I don't doubt it; I've seen the way you run her ragged."

Hiding a grin behind her scarf, the young woman nodded. "It takes discipline to wield a sword."

"If she's anything like her cousin, she'll have nothing to worry about."

She flushed at the compliment, trying to ignore how charming she found his smile to be. Gram was a decent looking lad, to be sure, with warm eyes and hair like spun gold. Such a lovely colour - much nicer than the flaxen shade of her own hair. He was strong, certainly, and brave, and loyal. He had the makings of a fine husband.

But Lasallin wasn't ready for that. She longed for the road, for the freedom this life afforded her. She didn't want to settle down in a home and have children yet. Someday, many years from now, she would consider such things, but for today, this is where she belonged.

She chanced a look back at her aspiring suitor, only to find he was no longer looking at her. His gaze was focused in the distance, and she followed it to where spirals of black where winding into the sky.

"Smoke?" she wondered.

"Fire!" Commander Bergil shouted from the front of the line, and all at once their company surged forward, swords drawn and bows at the ready.

Evidence of an attack became more apparent the closer they drew, but as they neared, they could see no movement, hear no cries. The orange lick of flame was absent, only the smoulder of ashes remained.

Bergil ordered them to slow, eyes scouring for signs of an ambush. He found none. "Whoever was here… they're gone now."

A wretched smell hung in the air, growing more and more potent the closer they ventured; a choking, rotting stench, accompanied by the burning musk of smoke. Death.

The sight that awaited them upon entering the village was one that Lasallin would never forget. She'd seen plenty of gore in her life, but this… nothing could have prepared her. Bodies everywhere, littering the ground in great, bloody masses. The villagers had not just been murdered, they had been butchered. Beheaded, torn apart, mutilated. Men, women, children… none were spared. Houses were decimated - burned and ransacked.

"We're too late," one of the boys muttered, horror stricken. His face was as pale as a sheet.

Commander Bergil grimaced, dark eyes narrowing in distaste. "Split up; see if you can find any survivors."

Manoeuvring her horse between the heaps of bodies, Lasallin turned down a smaller road, her ears straining to pick up on any distinct sound; a cry, a cough, anything. Aside from the odd crackle of dying embers she heard nothing.

"Over here!" another guard called.

Turning toward his voice, she urged her steed into a canter, winding through alleys and side-streets until she emerged on what appeared to be the village courtyard. The smell here was so bad it made her eyes water, the central walkway wet with blood and excrements. One of the lads had dismounted, and was standing next to a mangled body. He had a handkerchief pressed firmly to his mouth.

She slid from her mare's back, wading through the mess of innards and other secretions, grimacing when great swarms of flies were stirred by her passing. Stepping up alongside him, her eyes widened at the sight of the body. Huge chunks ripped from the torso - skin torn, meat rent, bone crushed. This… was not the work of a bandit. It looked as though…

"He was eaten," Bergil whispered in disgust, his dark utterance mirroring their thoughts.

Lasallin turned from the corpse, eyes drifting over the bodies that littered the square. Similar wounds could be found on every one of them. "They all were."

"Tracks!" Gram called from astride his horse, pointing to the road near the edge of the courtyard.

She followed many of the others to the aforementioned spot, eyes narrowing as she caught sight of a paw print.

"Wolves?" another guard asked.

The pale-haired swordswoman knelt next to a print, frowning as she splayed her hand out above it, measuring the size. It was far too large to belong to a wolf, though it was without a doubt canine. Massive paws, sheering fangs… only one creature came to mind. She'd never actually seen one; she'd only heard stories of them from her father. Great, vicious beasts with jaws so big they could bite a man in two.

"Not wolves; wargs," she guessed.

"Wargs? Is it possible?" Gram repeated, eyes darting along the shadowed alleyways.

As the others speculated amongst themselves, she continued on down the road, following the tracks. There were several sets, she noted, along with a few other, notably humanoid pairs. From what her father had told her, where wargs were involved, one was also likely to find orcs.

Now, orcs she had dealt with on occasion, but never anything of this magnitude. This lot seemed far more organised than the scavenging stragglers she'd picked off from time to time. Lasallin continued to follow the trail, which veered from the main road and went off into a field. She could see a multitude of others carving through the long grass as well, all of which funnelled into a single, larger path that lead…

Panic flaring in her chest as she realized the direction they were heading, she turned and ran back to the others, exclaiming urgently, "They're going South, through the forest!"

Bergil cursed, pulling his horse's reigns sharply to the side as he urged the stallion forward. "Quickly! We must head them off!"

She swerved through the cluster of men and horses, leaping up onto her own mare and nudging her into motion. The silence of the ruined village was filled with the thundering of hooves on stone, their mounts rasping deeply as they pushed them as fast as they could run. It had taken them the better part of a day to reach the village at a leisurely rate, stopping for breaks, but if they could keep this pace they would likely arrive just after sunset.

Lasallin could hardly breathe as she imagined those monsters setting upon their town. The few guards that had remained would be overtaken within minutes, unprepared for an attack of that scale. Her mother, her aunt… her cousin.

She shook her head, clearing her mind of the horrific images that accompanied those thoughts. It wouldn't come to that. They would make it in time; they had to!

...

Ioreth crouched low, watching the rabbit graze. Long ears twitched this way and that, whiskers trembling as it chewed, and she slid another foot closer, nocking her arrow carefully as she moved. Keeping her breath quiet and even, she pulled the string taut, lining up her shot…

Then, without warning, the little creature fled, and she stared after it with a look of bewilderment. She frowned, certain she hadn't made a sound.

A low, rasping voice caught her attention, and she plastered herself swiftly against the forest floor as the sounds drew nearer. There were… two at least, both male, from what she could hear, though she didn't understand the language. She peered up through the brambles, squinting into the wood. It was difficult to see this late in the evening, darkness cloaking much of the forest.

Right away she spotted the eyes, dozens of them, glowing through the trees. A great, hulking shape took form amid the shadows, and then another, and another. She clasped a hand over her mouth to withhold a scream as the first creature came into view. It was gruesome, its head abnormally large in comparison to its streamline body. The brownish, matted fur on its face was dappled with a glistening redness, long, ragged strips of what looked to be flesh dangling from massive teeth.

Their riders were no less horrifying, with their mangled features and brutish weapons.

She had to warn the townsfolk. Turning, she slid through the underbrush as quietly as she was able, trying with everything in her to control the trembling of her limbs and the raggedness of her breath. When she was sure she was far enough that they wouldn't immediately hear her, she took off at a sprint, gasping as tears pricked her eyes.

'Where are you, Las?'

...

A deep growl rumbled through his warg's chest, and Yazneg watched as the beast lifted its muzzle to scent the air. **_"Smell something, do you?"_**

His mount snarled, prowling toward a cluster of sparse looking bushes. Behind them, the grass was compressed, the indentation freshly made. The orc snickered. **_"Let the human flee. The warning will come far too late."_**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's gunna get real, just so ya know… 
> 
> Reminder - bold and italics together are used when the orcs are talking in Black Speech.

Terror clawed up her throat when she heard the screams, the smell of smoke tainting the air. Her horse was already wheezing, but Lasallin pushed the speckled mare harder, needing to reach the others. She was first to enter the town, sword drawn as she barrelled onto the main road. The houses were aflame, the dirt muddied with copious amounts of blood. Everywhere familiar faces stared up at her, lifeless, frozen. She forced herself not to linger on them, seeking out the monsters responsible for this string of massacres.

The first orc she found was looting the corpse of a fallen guard, and she put her blade through his back before he even had a chance to turn around. More came at the sound of his garbled cry, and she pressed through them, sword plunging into one after another. Their numbers were astonishing. She couldn’t recall ever having seen so many orcs at once.

The charging mare trampled one of the beasts as he stepped into her path, though his spear tore deeply into her chest. The horse screeched shrilly, falling forward and throwing her rider from the saddle.

Rolling back up onto her feet, Lasallin lifted her sword to deflect a blow, tucking to the side and thrusting her weapon into the orc’s ribs.  She could hear the cries of the townsfolk, the snarling of the wargs, the ring of metal as her brothers engaged the enemy.

One particularly piercing scream made the breath catch in her throat, and she ran toward the sound. It was a young girl’s scream, and a frighteningly familiar one at that. Rounding a corner, she nearly stumbled at the sight of her cousin, covered in blood, crawling along the ground as a warg padded up behind her. She’d never reach her in time.

Her eyes sought a weapon, landing quickly on a ragged looking spear protruding from the back of some poor, hapless soul. Wrenching it free, she heaved the gruesome looking pike as hard as she was able, relief swelling in her breast when it struck the creature’s neck.

With a yelp the warg toppled to the side, the orc on its back hurled a short distance away.

Ioreth glanced back at the sound, and – finding the monster dead – turned to seek out her rescuer. Her eyes lit up upon seeing her cousin, and she reached out, expression pleading.

Knowing she hadn’t much time, Lasallin quickly dispatched the fallen orc before he could rise, and then snatched the girl up from the ground. Taking her by the shoulders, she demanded, “Are you hurt?”

The young brunette shook her head.

“What of your mother? And mine?”

Tears filled her eyes, her chin quivering as she shook her head once more. “They told me to run. I… I tried to stay with them, b-but they m-made me.”

Lasallin felt her heart seize, felt her stomach churn. Her mother… her aunt… gone. She bit back her own tears; she could do nothing for them now, but Ioreth still had a chance. Burying the sadness beneath determination, she responded, “We will mourn them later, when we can. For now, we need to get you out of here.”

She hauled her cousin along as they took to the alleyways, knowing they needed to stay out of sight if they had any chance of escape. They came to the end of the lane, slowing as the sounds of the battle grew louder.

The blonde woman balked at the sight that met her, Bergil standing amid the scattered bodies of her fellow guardsmen. He was alone, and wounded, fending off a small cluster of sneering orcs. She had to help him. Turning to Ioreth, she instructed, “Stay here. Stay hidden.”

Without another word she sprinted across the road to assist the Commander, her blade slashing through the tendons in the nearest orc’s legs. He dropped to the ground with a sickening cry as another lunged. Withdrawing a dagger from within her cloak, she drove it into the kneeling orc’s head as she repelled a blow from the second, quickly yanking the knife free and ramming it into her assailant’s jugular.

Both fell limply to the ground as the sound of Bergil’s pained shout drew her attention, and she turned just in time to watch the last of the hunched, gnarled monsters pull his blade free of the Commander’s stomach. She leapt to his side, kneeling as he crumpled into a heap. Throwing an arm behind his back, she eased his descent, just barely having enough time to help him to the ground before the orc was upon her.  She deflected his swing with an enraged shout, sinking her dagger into the bastard’s belly. Innards spilled across the ground, black blood spattering her cloak and face.

A wet sounding cough drew her attention back to the injured man at her feet, and she knelt to assess the level of damage that had been inflicted. His hand did nothing to stem the blood flow as it seeped freely from the wound, staining his garments a deep crimson. He was shaking when he reached for her, and she knew he wasn’t long for this world.

“There are too m-many,” he told her as he clasped her hand, voice quiet and strained. “Take what survivors you can and flee.”

Lasallin grimaced, hating the thought of leaving him here, of leaving the town to burn. Yet a good soldier knew when to fight, and when to retreat. There was no saving the settlement, or the Commander, but perhaps she could still save some of the others.

The shaking subsided, and when she focused on him once more the light was gone from his eyes, his body still. She wanted badly to linger, to give all of these good men and women proper burials, as they deserved, but she knew she could not. Ioreth was counting on her, and who could say how many others were still out there, fighting for their lives. She had to find them.

Trotting back to the alley, she took her cousin by the hand, instructing quietly, “Come. We need to keep moving.”

Ioreth was despondent, her eyes locked on Bergil’s body. “They’re dead. All of them…”

Lasallin shook her cousin, telling her firmly, “We can’t stop here. We have to keep going, Iory. Be strong!”

The girl pried her eyes away from the slaughter, staring up into her older cousin’s face. Mouth pulling into a thin line, she gave a little nod, squeezing the hand that clasped hers.

The swordswoman pressed her dagger into the girl’s hand, the blade smeared black with orc blood. “Here, use it if need be. Stay close.”

They crossed the road and slipped into another back lane, moving from street to street as they sought out other survivors. The houses were all empty, looted and burning. A sickening feeling of dread gripped her chest as the sounds of the struggle lessened, fewer screams piercing the air, fewer battle cries. All she could hear was the roar of the fire and the raucous laughter of the orcs.

Her hand shook on the hilt of her sword. She was too late.

A shuddering sob drew her attention, and she strained to find its origin. There was no way of knowing from here, so she turned to her cousin expectantly. Iorith nodded in understanding, tucking herself up against the wall and tightening her grip on the dagger she’d been given. Lasallin slid around the corner, skirting the houses and glancing inside as she passed. Finally she found someone, and slipped through a broken window, careful to avoid the flames.

They were huddled in the corner, and she squinted through the smoke. Ana, a wife to one of the guardsmen, she recognised after a moment. The blonde slid closer, calling out softly, “I’m here. We need to go, it isn’t safe!”

Ana looked up at her slowly, and Lasallin nearly stumbled as she saw what the other woman held against her chest. An infant… lifeless; the cloth it was swaddled in was red with blood.

The house began groaning, and she pleaded desperately, “Please! You have to come now!”

She made no response, no indication of following. Even when the fire snapped wickedly, and the roof began to creak. Lasallin lunged as the house started collapsing around them, crying out in despair when a large wooden beam slammed to the floor at her feet, cutting her off. “No!”

Left without a choice she turned and fled, barely making it back out the window before the rest of the roof gave way. Her lungs and eyes were burning as she glanced back at the crumbling home, the look on Ana’s face carved into her memory.

Ioreth’s scream filled her ears, and she tore her gaze from the burning remains, seeking out her cousin. The young girl was stumbling from the alley, a chuckling orc following closely behind. Lasallin’s blade was in his back before he even noticed her, but others had seen; many others. Dozens of them poured in from all directions, along with their wargs, smirking as they closed in.

Pulling her cousin behind her, the young woman readied her blade, knowing this could well be her last stand. If she was going to die today, she was going to kill as many of these damned monsters as she was able.

The creatures began conversing; speaking amongst themselves in a throaty language she understood none of.

 ** _“This one’s pretty,”_**  Lungaz snickered, eyeing the brunette.

 ** _“Very pretty,”_** Nuzu agreed, gaze sliding to her protector.  ** _“If you want her, you’ll have to get through this one first.”_**

**_“This scrawny brat? Easy.”_ **

A snickering orc stepped forward, and she took his head from his shoulders before he could even lift his blade. The others made sounds of angry protest, snarling at her. To her left, one of them tried reaching for Ioreth, only to have his arm severed. He screeched in fury, cradling the bloody stump to his chest as others moved forward.

A spear was thrust at her from somewhere within the cluster, nearly hitting its mark. Grabbing hold of the shaft as it skimmed past, she directed the tip into the head of another orc, one that had been lunging at her from the other side. She gutted its wielder, pushing him back as her eyes darted through the throng. She was skilled enough with a sword, but against so many at once the odds were not in her favour. She pulled her cousin more closely behind her, turning as she waited for the next strike.

 ** _“Someone kill this fucking whelp already!”_** Yazneg snarled, glowering down at the cloaked guard from the back of his warg.

The lot of them charged her at once, and she was only able to kill a few before one of them deflected her swing, the force of his blow throwing her arm to the side. A sword – she couldn’t tell whose – arched upward, and Lasallin threw herself backwards to evade it. The tip caught her tunic, ripping a long slit up the front of it. She fell to the ground with a grunt, her teeth clacking painfully together as she hit the dirt.

Cool air caressed her chest, and she glanced down, her eyes widening when she noted that the bastard’s sword had not only cut her tunic, but her binding as well. She lifted her free hand to pull the gaping fabric together, but it was too late. They had seen.

Nuzu stepped on her wrist, effectively pinning her arm - and sword – to the ground. He knelt, gripping the red length of cloth around her neck and yanking it viciously away from her face.

 ** _“A woman?”_** he uttered in disbelief.

Yazneg appraised her, thinking she was certainly lovely enough.  ** _“Bring the both of them.”_**

Her sword was wrested from her, clawed fingers wrapping around her bicep to pull her up. They were huddled so closely around her that she could no longer see Ioreth. She struggled, straining to make visual contact.

 ** _“We’ve been gone long enough!”_** Yazneg bellowed.  ** _“The Master will be waiting.”_**

She heard a high, feminine whimper as they were hauled unforgivingly toward the wargs, twisting to seek out her cousin. The young girl looked absolutely terrified, her feet scrabbling along the ground, trying to pull out of her captor’s grip. The filthy orc who lead her gave her a shake, and she cried out in alarm.

“Ioreth,” she called. When her cousin met eyes with her, she instructed firmly, “Don’t struggle.”

She looked as though she wanted to argue, but the gravelly voice of an orc cut off her protests.

“You’d best listen to your friend.”

Both girls looked up at the one who’d spoken. “You speak Westron?” Lasallin asked sharply.

Yazneg nodded once, watching as the others mounted, hauling their prizes up onto the wargs with them.

The blonde woman glanced down at the snarling beast she was now astride, noting its bloodied muzzle and the way it was eying her. She observed the orcs as they gathered their plundered goods and tied what they could to the wargs, the rest thrown into large sacks that the unmounted foot soldiers carried over the backs. They moved into what looked like marching formations, and she was utterly shocked by just how organised and disciplined they were, far more than any orcs she’d ever seen before.

The orc behind her leaned forward, taking hold of the scruff of his warg and issuing a command in that dark, guttural language. The beast surged forward as the lot of them began moving, and her hand instantly sought purchase, landing on her captor’s knee. He chuckled in a suggestive tone, and she removed it just as quickly, instead sinking her fingers into the canine’s fur as well. It snarled as she did, but made no further protests, and she lowered her body as close as she dared to its back. Holding on tightly, she glanced through the pack, finding her cousin doing much of the same.

They marched through the night and into the next day, stopping only once to eat. They were not offered rations, though she had not expected to be, and was rather glad for it. The only sustenance they appeared to have was human meat, and she was not so desperate as to result to cannibalism. It did, however, offer them a brief rest, as well as a chance to relieve themselves – all while under the watchful, perverse eyes of their abductors. Trying to pee while a group of filthy, disgusting monsters was staring at you was decidedly the most uncomfortable thing she’d ever done.

They did not linger long, the Westron-speaking orc ordering them back into formation not long after they’d stopped. He seemed in a rush to get wherever they were going, and she wondered what exactly it was they were heading for. An orc stronghold? Were there more of them? She supposed she would have her answers when they got there, if they didn’t decide to butcher and eat them first.

By the time night fell on the second day, her cousin could no longer remain awake, and Lasallin found herself struggling to do so as well. While fear was still at the forefront of her mind, her exhaustion was quickly winning out over her determination to remain alert. By the twilight, she could no longer fend off the alluring pull of slumber, and her eyes slid shut.

Her dreams offered no reprieve, angry flames and tormented screams haunting her. Her brothers, all of them, lost, her mother, gone. How could she have failed so miserably? How could she have let this happen? Their faces and voices spun though her mind.

‘Failure.  _Failure_.’

**_“Get up!”_ **

Her awakening came abruptly, the air pushed from her lungs as her body made contact with the hard, cold ground. A startled cry left her mouth as she landed, shaking her from her fitful sleep.  She pushed herself up as the orc she’d been riding with gripped the back of her shirt and ushered her forward.

Ioreth was herded up alongside her as they entered what appeared to be an encampment, and judging by her dishevelled appearance, Lasallin could only assume the girl’s rousing had been as sudden and unpleasant as hers.

Dread filled her as she walked, more and more of the monstrous creatures coming into view. There were so many…  _hundreds_! What was worse, there were humans… human women. They were all pretty, or had been pretty, at one point, markings of obvious abuse having scarred their features. Many of them looked fearful, but most of them looked… lifeless. She’d seen that look before.

Panic swelled in her chest as she glanced at her cousin. Death had always been a very real possibility, but rape… She couldn’t stand the thought of Ioreth living through such horrors, couldn’t bear to think that she might look like these other women one day, broken, sullied.

Ioreth took a shuddering breath, her eyes misting as she looked around, dozens of hopeless faces looking back at her.

“Hush, now,” Lasallin told her in whispered tones. “Don’t let them see your fear.”

The Westron-speaking orc stepped ahead of the unit, his posture hunched and submissive as he spoke. She could scarcely see a thing past the throng that surrounded them, but she  _heard_  the reply. A voice, deep and commanding, rang out over the encampment, and all else grew silent. She suspected by their reaction that this was their leader, but when she  _saw_  him… all doubt vanished.

At  _least_  a foot taller than even the largest orc she’d ever seen, the monstrous being was a pale as death, with eyes that pierced like ice. His torso was littered with scars, all self-inflicted, judging by their symmetry. In place of a left hand he had a pronged spire, which looked to have been crudely speared into the stump of his arm, all the way through to his elbow, where the other tip emerged.   

He approached them, his penetrating gaze sweeping over the spoils they’d collected, landing on her for the briefest instant. She felt the hairs on her arms stand up as she met his eyes, her heart hammering in her chest. The look did not linger long, his focus shifting to the commander of their little unit.

The leader gave only the smallest nod, but it seemed enough to relieve them. They were moving again, pulled further into the encampment, where other orcs awaited with what looked to be anticipation. Many of them came forward and collected the prizes they’d pillaged, dragging them off to places unseen.

Her cousin screamed, and she turned as one of the orcs that had attacked their town yanked at her sleeve, tearing her dress. Another grabbed hold of her, and without thinking she drove her elbow into the malformed stump that she assumed was his nose. He recoiled, and she reached for his blade, lunging at her cousin’s assailant. She struck him across the back, splitting the skin from shoulder to hip. He wailed in pain and outrage, spinning to retaliate. She put her boot against his stomach, shoving him onto his back with a shout.

Lasallin unfastened her cloak as she slipped past him, wrapping it protectively around her cousin’s shivering shoulders. She met eyes with the girl, vowing solemnly, “I won’t let them take you, no matter what.”

Ioreth nodded, knowing exactly what that promise might entail. If she were going to die here, she would prefer it be by her cousin’s hand, rather than at the mercy of these vile monsters.

Turning, the blonde woman levelled her sword at the leering orcs, searching one last time for a way out. They were everywhere, surrounding them completely. With numbers so vast, they wouldn’t get more than five feet without being caught.

Then, amid the expanse of mangled grey and brown faces, a flash of blue drew her attention. Her breath caught in her chest when she met eyes with the orc leader, his stare cold and penetrating. She observed him, noting his posture spoke of… interest? Anticipation?

An idea filtered into her mind, a dark one, but an idea all the same. It was risky, but it very well might be the only thing that would keep her cousin from harm. She’d failed so very many, but perhaps she could still save Iory.

She sought out the one who spoke her language, instructing him firmly, “I want you to tell your leader… that I offer myself to him, so long as no one touches my cousin.”

Ioreth balked, reaching out for her arm. “No! You can’t!”

Hushing her, the swordswoman held her ground.

Yazneg laughed at the demand. “If he wants to fuck you, he  _will_  fuck you, whether you offer it or not.”

Lasallin tightened her grip on the hilt of her stolen blade. “I assure you we will both be dead long before any of you can force yourselves upon us.”

He blinked at the dark utterance, surprised by the certainty in her words. There was no lie in her eyes, her gaze steady and unwavering. He’d never encountered a human woman so unafraid of the prospect of death.

“If he wants me, this is only way. If he agrees, I will do  _whatever_ he asks of me.”

Shock dissipating, Yazneg scoffed, “You expect us to cater to the needs of this girl when she offers nothing? If she-”

“You needn’t do a thing,” she interrupted. “I will take responsibility for all of her needs. All I ask is that no one touches her. Now tell him!”

Not liking her tone, he snarled, “I take no orders from you, wench! Mind your tongue, before I cut it out!”

Her smile was anything but pleasant. “You can try. Or you can tell your leader what I have offered, and live to see another day.”

Sneering, Yazneg turned to his Master, who looked at him in askance.

Lasallin watched with bated breath as the orc relayed her words, her eyes flicking between the two as she waited for some indication of a decision. Finally the pale one turned toward her, stepping closer.

She stood firmly in front of her cousin, her stance widening in preparation.

“Come here, wench!” the other orc ordered, earning himself a scowl.

Hesitating only a moment, she turned and handed the blade to her cousin, instructing, “If this doesn’t work, and they try something…”

She left the rest unsaid, but her cousin’s nod of finality ensured her that the girl knew her meaning. Facing the towering orc once more, she walked forward, stopping when she was just within reach of him. He stared down at her with his frigid blue eyes, assessing her.

Azog regarded the human woman with curiosity. She was certainly pretty, but so were many of the others. Beauty had never truly piqued his interest. Her boldness, on the other hand, he found immensely intriguing. He’d encountered very few who could look him in the eye without wavering, yet here she stood, back straight and resolve firmly intact. He wondered if she truly meant what she said. That she would do  _anything_ he asked of her. He was certain she did not realise exactly what she was offering, but her ignorance mattered little.

His eyes wandered down to the slit in her tunic, the enticing swell of her breasts. He reached forward, and she did not recoil. A pleased smirk tilted his lips. Grabbing hold of the fabric with hand and hook, he wrenched the material apart, widening the tear. He glanced up to catch her expression. The only sign of her discomfort was a minute waver in her breath, but otherwise she remained unshaken. She was certainly fearless, this one. He wondered how long her fortitude would last.

Gaze sliding back down to newly revealed flesh, he hummed in appreciation when he noted the toned plain of her abdomen. Scars, small and large, littered her torso. A warrior, to be sure, an aspect he found attractive. Most human women bored him, with their simpering and crying, but this woman was different. She was strong, and the prospect of a challenge had anticipation slithering through his veins.

He would play her little game, for now.  ** _“No one touches the girl!”_**

Lasallin glanced at the other orc for clarification, finding him staring at his leader in bewilderment. “What did he say?”

Yazneg blinked, shocked that his Master would go along with this. “He… has agreed to your terms.”

Relief flooded her, though it was coupled with a fear that she could not deny. She braced herself as the massive orc took hold of her arm and turned her away from him, pushing her down onto her knees.

She met eyes with her cousin, and her resolve hardened. She had to do this, for Ioreth. Taking a deep breath, she instructed the girl. “No matter what you hear, you mustn’t look.”

The young brunette shook her head, taking a step forward as she insisted, “No! I can’t just let him-”

“Please, Iory!” Lasallin pleaded desperately as she felt him kneel behind her.

The girl shuddered, her eyes wet with unspent tears. Falling to her knees, she wrapped her cousin’s cloak tightly around herself, tucking her head down into her lap.

The monstrous white orc pulled what remained of her tunic from her body, exposing her from the waist up, leaving only the tattered strips of her sleeves and her arm bracers. His fingers splayed across her upper back, pushing her down until she was on her elbows, forehead pressed against the cold ground. Her braid slid forward over her shoulder as his hand slid lower, gripping the waist of her pants and pulling them over her hips to pool at her knees. She shuddered, forcing herself to ignore the feeling of his touch, and the lewd shouts of the other orcs, and focus solely on the reason she was enduring this: her cousin. The poor girl had suffered so much already due to her inability to protect the town. If this was what Lasallin had to do to ensure no further harm came to her, then so be it.

Azog let his gaze slide along the arch of her spine, over the swell of her rear to her womanhood. He moved his loincloth aside, spitting into his palm and stroking himself to full mast. Pressing the slickened head against her sex, he urged forward, thrusting shallowly as he worked the tip into her tight entrance. Once he’d achieved penetration, he grasped her hip firmly and pulled her back.

Crying out, Lasallin scraped her fingers along the dirt, grabbing fistfuls of dried grass. He did not stop, surging forward again and eliciting another, unintentional shout from her. Teeth clenching, she withheld all other noises as best she could, reminding herself that she’d suffered worse. A sword through the shoulder, an arrow in the side, countless other injuries that had left lasting marks across her body. If she could survive those, she could survive this, and damn it she was going to cling to whatever scraps of her dignity she could. She refused to give this bastard the satisfaction of hearing her pain.

The white orc found himself surprised with this woman yet again. It was not often that he partook in the pleasures of human females, having grown tired of their pathetic behaviour long ago. There was only so much crying and begging he could stand, and more often than not he’d slit their throats before he’d even finished.  This one, however, had remained mostly silent aside from the first, startled sounds he’d managed the wrench from her.

He reached forward and grabbed hold of her hair, pulling her head up and twisting it to the side. She only grunted in protest, but made no other sounds, and he smirked down at her as she glared over her shoulder at him. A deep laugh rolled from his chest.

Her scalp and neck burned, and when she tried to push herself up he placed the barbs of his wicked, metal limb against her spine, the tips pressing painfully into her flesh. Her vision was beginning to go spotty, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she would be able to remain conscious.

The large orc behind her grunted, his pace quickening until he seized up against her, releasing her hair to grip her already tender hip once more. He throbbed inside of her, growling as he spent himself. After only a moment of stillness, he pulled away, leaving her in a dishevelled heap on the ground.

Lasallin ignored their jeering laughter, willing herself to push the pain to the back of her mind. Reaching down with a shaking hand, she pulled her pants back on, pushing herself up off the ground. Agony speared through her middle at every motion, but she pressed on, gathering the remainder of her tunic. She could feel a sickening slickness sliding down her thigh as she pressed the bundle of torn fabric against her chest. Thankfully, though, she had lost her maidenhead many years ago, while training. It had seemed unfortunate at the time, but now she was rather grateful for that small mercy. While the discomfort was ever present, at least there wasn’t too much blood.

Azog watched with equal parts intrigue and admiration as the woman collected herself, rising to her feet with nary a waver. He knew without a doubt that she was in pain, but she hardly showed it, standing with her spine straight and her shoulders back. He’d never seen such a resilient human woman. A smirk curved his cruel mouth. Perhaps this would prove more entertaining than he’d originally thought.

Steadying herself for a moment, the blonde swordswoman set her eyes upon the huddled form of her cousin, the girl still bent over, hands upon her ears to block out the sounds. She made her way there slowly, not wanting to over extend herself and fall. When she reached the girl’s side, she knelt, placing a gentle hand upon her shoulder.

Ioreth gasped, pulling back with a start. Letting out a shuddering breath of relief when she saw who was touching her, she stared up into the face of her mentor, now scraped and smudged with dirt. She tried her hardest to hold back tears as her cousin managed a smile for her, launching herself into the older woman’s arms.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Las,” she whispered, the guilt so heavy it nearly choked her.

Lasallin ran a reassuring hand through the girl’s deep brown locks, resting her chin atop her cousin’s head. “Shh. No need for that. I’m here, Iory.”

While she couldn’t say it out loud, she vowed silently that they would be free of these wretched monsters someday. Whatever it took, she would find a way to free them. For now, however, she would wait, and bide her time.

Her gaze slid back to the towering, pale orc, whose icy blue eyes were still trained upon her. Perhaps if she could kill him the others would scatter, and give them the chance they needed to make their escape. Turning away from him, she feigned submission, but the wheels in her mind were already turning. He would let his guard down sooner or later, and when he did, she would be there to put a knife through his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The things we do for the people we love. Hope no one was overly offended, but you did get fair warning here.


End file.
